


Pretending

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-12-08
Updated: 2000-12-08
Packaged: 2019-05-15 22:53:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14799516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: A sad piece - warning Character Death





	Pretending

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

Pretending 

by Jessie

Summary: A sad piece from Josh's point of view 

Rating: R (language and death) 

Archive: Yes, please. Just ask. 

Disclaimer: Not mine. 

Authors note: I love feedback. Especially the good kind. Also- I'm sorry this is such a sad story. I just got some sudden inspiration and had to write it.

***

Should I pretend this isn't happening? Should I laugh. And talk. As though everything in the entire world was just as it should be? Just as it always is? Should I ignore my body's protests, the ones that seem to say, "if only I could lie down. If only I could sleep forever."

There'll be some one to wake me up, though. I know there will be. So there's really no point. I close my eyes, and pretend that the rest of the world doesn't exist, but I don't let sleep come. Somehow I know that if I went to sleep, I'd want to stay that way. And the disappointment of waking up- another disappointment- might just be the end of me.

So should I pretend that all is well? Normal? Peaceful, even? I'm thinking of this as I touch my hand to my heart. I only now realize that I've developed a habit of doing this, of idly stroking my wound when life seems to be too big.

This chest has been through so much.

I recall disasters that have hit me so hard, but that I bounced back from as though they were meaningless. So meaningless. I won't let this newest one become meaningless by bouncing back. I won't reduce it to nothing more than a day on the calendar.

My fingers linger over where, once, a bullet had penetrated my skin, had left it's evil mark as though claiming me for its own. I had bounced back from that one too, hadn't I? It hadn't been easy. But I did. I let that incident become something of my past to disregard and hide, as though it had never existed.

Still. I knew that it had. My fingers tracing the scar on my chest are proof of that.

This newest disaster, I think, left a scar too big to trace so carelessly.

I suppose that's what this is. A disaster. Though, somehow, thoughts of earthquakes and tidal waves pale in comparison. I don't want to settle for this thoughtless word, but what else could this be? The end? An ending to so many things. I close my eyes and memorize the word. That's what this is. An ending. And that's what I'll call it. I'll look back and say to myself, "that was the end."

If I live that long.

Yes. I have thought of the fact that I will not live as long as it would take to be able to look back on this 'ending'. Somehow, the idea of a tomorrow, and a next day, and a day after, fills me with such a sense of dread.

I don't want there to be a tomorrow, and a next day, and a day after.

I want to go to sleep. I want to never wake up. I want yesterday back.

There are people around me who want to be normal again. People mourning for the yesterday that, unlike me, they've realized they can't have back. Once the tears are gone, they'll move on. They'll let this event become one of their scars to pull out of that locked drawer whenever they need a memory to trace.

I almost feel a hatred towards these people. They shouldn't be wanting these things. They shouldn't be allowed to return to their lives, to their 'normal'. This 'ending' shouldn't be anyone's meaningless scar. This is the kind of wound that stays fresh, no matter how long it's been, no matter how many years have passed.

God. Years. I don't know if I'll be able to handle the prospect of years. I can't handle the prospect of single days. I'll never make the end of the year.

Should I just pretend that this isn't happening? Make-believe that I am one of those people who knows how to move on? I want to ask someone. I want some one to walk up to me and answer my unspoken question. Explain to me how it works, how things move on, and why the fuck this world is still spinning on its axis, because if I were it I sure as hell would have stopped for this.

The problem is- and I know and recognize this problem while tracing my smaller scar- that the person I want to ask, the one person I know could give me an answer, is not here.

She's not here.

That sentence has so many meanings. I don't think I know what to do with them all. Perhaps I'll just store it away, pretend I don't need such a phrase to describe the situation. It is the definition of my largest and newest scar. It is a sentence that I truly never want to hear again, but know I will.

Because I know I'll ask if she's here, and someone will tell me that she's not. I am going to be in one of those tomorrow's that I hate so much, and see that desk that is empty. And I am going to ask some one- any one- where she is. Is she here? She's supposed to be here. And they, in all of their ignorance and good-intentions, will tell me that she's not.

She's not here.

It almost sounds reminiscent of "he's been shot", doesn't it?

I rest my head in my hands, my eyes closed, my breathing ragged, and I try to think of ways to combat the coming minutes. Because I'm already having trouble dealing with them. And then I'll see what I can do about the hours. And then I'll try for the days. I'll see if I can't make them shorter, and less sharp.

Something desperately wants me to pretend that this isn't happening, that this is all a dream and soon I'll open my eyes to find that bright round Earth that I am so fond of, is just as I left it.

But a larger part of me knows that this will not happen, and hates myself for thinking such things. It's not right. This 'end' deserves more than unanswered prayers.

I won't pray.

Instead- and I decide this early on, so that maybe whatever is to come will not seem so brash in its existence- I'll think about all those 'yesterdays' that I want back so badly. I'm letting them pass through my mind right now, I'm going over each one again and again because it's the only thing I can think to do.

No, I won't stop to find regrets. No, I won't pretend that this 'end' has not come. Because it has. And regrets never did any one any good.

But then, I never told her...

I wipe a tear away in a defensive gesture. I am not crying. I am not crying. It's only one tear. It's only one.

I want to go to sleep. And I want to stay that way forever. But I know someone will wake me up, though good-intentioned and sympathetic. Some one will come along and wake me up. So it's pointless to even try.

But maybe- maybe, she'll be that some one.

I can see her too. She's laughing at me. She's giving me that smile that I love so much, the one that lights up a room like nothing else in the world. She's walking towards me, talking. That voice. If I am to be woken, I wish for it to be by that voice. It doesn't matter what she's saying, it's that she's saying it. And her beautiful face, her gorgeous eyes and mouth, are coming closer to me. She's changing facial expressions. She's looking frustrated, then argumentative, then embarrassed. She's beautiful when she's embarrassed.

I place my hand over my heart once more and listen for its beat. Should I pretend this isn't happening? I ask no one. But she answers me. I feel it.

I pretend that her hand is on my chest.

She's feeling my heartbeat, and tracing the line of my scar. She's telling me that I don't have to pretend. I want to believe her. I do. So badly. But that tomorrow looms straight ahead, and somehow I'm almost certain that I won't make it.

'Tomorrow's gonna come whether you like it or not Josh' She's speaking in that wonderful voice. I can almost hear her in my head. Or somewhere closer to my wound.

'You're beautiful today' I'm whispering, not caring if she doesn't hear.

'And you look like a mess. You've got meetings. You've got appointments.'

'I want you.' She's smiling. And blushing.

I'm tracing my scar with my fingertips.

'Should I pretend that this isn't happening?' I ask again, softly.

'No.' I can hear her say, before I look up and stare at the wall, letting my hands relax in my lap.

I'm bottling up her image inside my chest. Like I said, this chest has been through a lot. And always bounced back. I'm not going to let that happen this time, though. I'll keep that bottle sealed. And while everyone pretends that life is still normal, I'll be tracing that scar.

Fin

  

  


End file.
